


My Mona Lisa, Ghost

by TheonlyDan



Category: What/If (TV)
Genre: Am I really the only one in this Fandom?, F/F, First In The Fandom, Implied/Referenced Incest, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Renée Zellweger's knees deserve an episode of their own, Trauma, what if
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24274198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheonlyDan/pseuds/TheonlyDan
Summary: Anne Montgomery holds the key to unlock your past. How are you going to solve your own puzzle? Write her a book, of course.
Relationships: Anne Montgomery/Original Female Character
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	1. Shackled

**Author's Note:**

> So I make our protagonist the ghostwriter of Anne's book, At Any Cost. I hope you enjoy how the story unfolds!  
> This will be both a prequel and a sequel of the show.  
> The title is taken from Ghost by The Acid.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why the change of heart? Why not keep writing about miserable people under your little pseudonym? What makes you have the confidence to waltz in here, to think that you, a second-rate author, are suitable to help me create my legacy?”
> 
> “Because I know your façade well enough to know how not to break it.”

Kingdoms rise and kingdoms end

My only rival is within

This is where it all begins

My only rival is within

_—Ruelle_

“…The only thing that sets you apart from mediocracy, is that…how do they call it? A sympathetic human touch?”

“Yes, but—”

“Correct me if I’m wrong. You’ve been writing for fifteen years and never anything else. You don’t even write about genres other than realistic fiction. Now, you are proposing to produce my book, and suggest you’d work better alone?”

“Yes.”

The sharp glint flickered. A smile bloomed in the shade of the darkest rose. Your conviction wavered as your pulse quickened. The ticking of your watch was a butterfly fluttering to escape.

“Why the change of heart? Why not keep writing about miserable people under your little pseudonym? What makes you have the confidence to waltz in here, to think that you, a second-rate author, are suitable to help me create my legacy?”

“Because I know your façade well enough to know how not to break it.”

She raised her brow elegantly and broadened her smile, showing the perfect amount of pearl-white teeth. She re-crossed her toned legs in leisure, and you gladly took the visual reward.

“I can see why they say you are good with your words.”

Anne Montgomery adjusted her posture, her hands' toned muscles flexing as she leaned forward in her cherry-burgundy dress. You lowered your gaze and straightened your sitting posture. You were in her private study, and she was sitting across from while you sat rigidly in the pull up chair.

She knew you found her attractive. She knew you were attracted to secrets and expected nothing more.

“I will take that as a compliment, Ms. Montgomery.”

“Call me Anne.” She said nonchalantly as she stood up to open a drawer, her motions were smooth like a cheetah on prowl, “Your work will start immediately as soon as we have our contract signed.”

A leather folder, pitch-black, landed in your view on the table. Something sparkled as Anne flipped the folder open for you, and you see wealth, sexuality and absolute-power as the black diamond on her middle finger whispered in silence. If you ignore those signs of warning, which you actually did, you were satisfied with appreciating her delicate fingers and her taste.

“Can I have some time to go over it?”

“Of course. Take your time.”

Then you realized she was not leaving the room. As you went over pages of unfamiliar legal terms, you couldn’t help but let the fear gnaw at you. The hourglass on her desk was telling you to hurry up, while you kept thinking of the height of her condo. The feminine yet industrialized decoration of the cold, European room, and the thought of being alone with this woman, made your face grow hot.

Standing near the French window, Anne held a glass of drink she poured for herself, and stared at the darkening view beside a bonsai tree. Her stance was relaxed; yet, you could tell she was poised for someone to look. There was a strange look in her eyes, iridescent but didn’t go against the orange sunset, and your best guess was she took great pleasure in watching people squirm in her calculated attention.

“Keep your eyes on the paper, Y/N. Or do I have to assume that you found me trustworthy enough to not go over the details?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. The devil is in the detail.” You mumbled, and after some thought, raised your head again steadfastly to meet her gaze. It felt like drowning in a sea of ice, so cold that it also counted as burning.

“Besides, trust is the most dangerous thing you can give away. Isn’t that right, _Anne_?”

“Quoting me to impress is ill-advised.” You scoffed. Anne was obviously not someone who could accept disobedience, and your place wasn’t high enough to offer a challenge. As you picked up the pen, a peculiar sense of pity washed over you but you weren’t sure why.

“But keep that quote in the book. I am glad we share a common ground on what the world should know about me.”

Anne’s words were both a slap and caress. As the fountain pen’s coldness seep from your fingers into your bones, the sound of pen scratching paper gradually made it to your ears; it alarmed you that your name had sunk into the document. The signature didn’t look like yours, nor did the weight of the pen felt right in your fingers.

You dropped the stationary as if it burned you.

“Very well.” Anne purred as she walked unhurriedly to your side. The heat radiating off of her made your body numb, and you could pick up the scent of her perfume. Expensive, graceful, intoxicating, but also dangerous, unfamiliar and frosty. You fixed your posture to sit upright as Anne towered aside you, inspecting the documents thoroughly. Seconds felt like hours.

“I wonder if you know what you’ve really signed up for.”

You did. There were preposterous demands and dehumanizing conditions, but you needed this opportunity no matter how deep Anne may already dig into your background. You prayed she knows nothing about the skeletons you hid. (The gunshot appeared on cue like a distant echo…You dragged yourself to the present with pain by sinking your nails into your palms.)

It was always better to make regrets rather than leaving one.

You smiled through the bitterness and looked at the blonde billionaire.

“I’m all yours, Anne.”

***

The cab was pre-paid and the ride was no more than ten minutes. It felt like an eternity. On the streets of San Francisco, people were still scarce.

It was not the first time that you were left with nearly nothing. You clutched your cell phone tightly with both of your hands. With the fear of crushing your only possession, you were not brave enough to check your phone for any messages.

_No one was going to look for you. You made sure of that._

The chill of the early morning air was nothing compared to the indifference you received from the security guard. You didn’t even want to recall his features as you walked into the elevator.

You were never claustrophobic. Now that you were stuck in a moving box to an unclear territory, a passage towards your life for the coming twenty weeks, you felt all of the symptoms in one sick second.

Fuck, you were not ready.

***

Foster’s presence was soothing. He brought you to your room upstairs and told you to wait for Anne. When you asked for how long, the pity in his eyes made you feel dirty about yourself. Nauseated, you politely turned down his offer to have breakfast in the living room.

“She would be here eventually.”

Then the bodyguard left you in the giant room with exceptional lighting, symbolistic paintings and minimal furniture. A king-sized bed, a sleek wooden armoire that was three times bigger than yours in your shabby apartment, a beige square arm sofa, an empty desk and shelf.

What had set this room so obviously apart from the rest of the floor, was its style. You were sure it was a mockery, that your room would be having an extra “human touch” despite how cliché the decor looked—copies of Guernica, that most famous painting of Dalí (La persistencia de la memoria), Apples and Oranges and many other famous pastiches, made you feel that your space was a sham. Redundant.

Oh well, but Scandinavian designs would never go wrong with a few strokes of extra colors.

You put your phone on the desk and hid your house keys in the drawer, hoping that you’d have something to hold onto since the phone would be taken away. You were sure that you were under surveillance, but you pray no matter who was watching, they would show mercy.

After all, you’d have nothing from now on.

_“Why are you doing this to me?” Men were everywhere, black like vultures. Leather jackets, the smell of American money and sweat. Stale beer._

_“Darling girl, I am helping you to get stronger. I am helping **us**. You would understand someday.”_

_Gunshot._

“Y/N. Wake up.”

You bolted from the bed. Beads of cold sweat had accumulated on your neck and the firing of the gun still rang in your ears. Someone watched from afar as you searched frantically under the pillow for your pistol. Only the reassuring coldness of the metal was gone, nor were you lying on your own bed.

“Bad dream?”

You blinked and finally came to your senses. Anne had tilted her head as if she was observing an animal behind glass.

“Oh. It’s you. Sorry.” Trying to pull your hair into a bun so you wouldn’t look like a nervous wreck, you erased the residual panic as you leaped off the bed. “I fell asleep, apparently. I apologize.”

“Hmmm.”

Anne narrowed her eyes and waited for you to talk more. But you were already masked with a professional smile. Trauma had prepared you for many kinds of undesirable scenarios.

“Guess I’m still not used to getting up early.”

“You didn’t touch any of the food. It’s rather…disappointing.” The corner of Anne’s mouth curved downwards as she adjusted her immaculate hair, sarcastic displeasure written over her face, “I’ve even asked the kitchen to prepare that medium-dark roasted beans that came from Columbia this morning, freshly grounded, to brew that coffee sitting out on the breakfast table.”

“How…”

Mouth agape, you reorganized your words. A, you didn’t want to believe that she ordered a shipment of coffee beans just for you, and B, how the hell did she know things as trivial as how you like to take your coffee?

She certainly had the money for all of the above. You being here was not a coincidence because she also wanted something from you. You gave an involuntary twitch and stared down at your boots.

“I believe the question you need to ask is, _why_?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you watched Anne rose from the mini sofa like she was in no rush for another one of her business meetings.

Anne was in her pantsuit glory, with black pumps and a classic long-bob-hairdo. Everything she did with herself made an image of precise perfection, and you believed that extra flair of prowess and sashay she had today was also a conscious choice.

Too bad you weren’t writing her for a modern bodice ripper.

“Indulge me. Come and have some of that coffee, at least?”

It was unnegotiable.

Transporting your coffee talk from the living room to her private study, it went straight to business much to your relief. You desperately needed something else to focus on other than your past. Anne’s mannerism didn’t change; it was still the same unreadable expression that you were sure, would have no difficulty switching into a thousand other faces: charismatic seductress, queen from the underworld, and everything in between.

On the caffeine rush—fuck, the coffee was the best you’d ever had in years—you had discussed the angle, the outline and the areas to be (or never to be) touched upon in the book. Anne seemed not too impressed you knew what you were doing.

After you were done asking questions, you relaxed onto the back of the chair in temporary satisfaction and started to take in your surroundings. You noticed a chain of keys perfectly protected under a shield of glass, and the massive bonsai by the window.

_Complete control. Highly curated. Everything served a purpose in her space._

Your blonde superior watched you observe with a faint smile, the kind of smile you could tell that she was pleased; the kind that was cruel but sad, like watching someone walking into the abyss of fatality. You instantly concluded that Anne was those who needed constant validation of being in control.

“And yet, you didn’t ask about just _exactly_ how we’re going to cooperate.”

You snapped your gaze back at the blonde. It was never the right time for you to notice how beautiful she was. The room had wonderful lighting, and it cast a warm, sunny glow on her silhouette; with that silk-white sleeveless blouse, all of the factors made Anne celestial, and you would dare describe her as _soft_.

The next sentence she uttered fractured the illusion.

“This isn’t just some pathetic self-help book—”

“I know that.” Anne didn’t seem angry when you cut in, in fact, she looked mildly intrigued. You carried on coolly, “I already put myself under your roof twenty-four-seven, I just don’t believe I can decide how we are going to work together.”

“You can, if you fight for it.”

“How about my phone? Do I get to keep it?”

“Oh, don’t be so naïve.” The smirk that broke off from Anne took you by surprise, and for a moment you forgot to be angry, “You’re lucky that I don’t want to take that souvenir you put in the drawers.”

Your stomach churned. Maybe the drink was too much.

“By all means, don’t just put things inside your room. Explore it. You’ll find everything you need. I never disappoint my guests.”

You avoided her gaze as she stood up. You listened as her heels made contact with the marble floor then clicking rhythmically onto the stairs. She wandered into your bedroom, undoubtedly to take your phone. The coffee turned sour in your mouth.

She was gone without a word, but you can take the hint that she no longer required you in her private study. Before she left, you could feel a searing gaze that landed upon your back, forming a scarlet letter that marked you as impure.

But it didn’t matter that much. You had already degenerated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think! Kudos, comments and suggestions are welcomed!


	2. Inflamed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t know what your real agenda is, and frankly I don’t care for an explanation. People like you usually aren’t worth my time, and yet…I cannot take the risk if it was all linked.”  
> “What is?”

Time ain't gonna cure you

Honey, time don't give a shit

Time ain't gonna cure you

Honey, time's just gonna hit on you

You've got to go straight ahead

_—The Kills_

A few weeks ago you dropped the current novel you’d been working on, which basically meant forgoing everything in your life, and started to research one name.

Anne Montgomery.

Her name didn’t ring a bell, but you could recognize her face. Reminded by some random advertisement, you realized you had seen that face somewhere on a photograph. However, you couldn’t remember anything about the picture.

_(Or you did remember. It was something that had to do with that gunshot, the blood splattering on those green papers that meant betrayal to your father…)_

Then you found Anne Montgomery never existed. You knew how one could disappear without any traces, and knew especially how one would appear to be if they chose to start over with a clean slate.

Another reason you begrudgingly admitted to yourself, was that Anne held the key to your past—in particular, a bleak period in your life that you chose to forget after you came to America. Now you had to remember. It had become a matter of life and death.

_(Gunshot. The man you loved died. He was murdered by the man you hated. You were powerless. Theo’s brains exploding from a giant hole of his right temple and splattering onto that giant bag of money beside. You were hypnotized, then you threw up onto the floor. Before passing out, something prickly and warm was slowly soaking your jeans…)_

You couldn’t remember the last time you had a good night's sleep, or having the motive to meet new people other than your agent or work-related acquaintances. It was unhealthy, and you were determined to purify yourself after everything that had happened. Not that you believed you were able to redeem yourself.

So you immersed in a world of another human being. Anne Montgomery reminded you of your father, except she had more class and was not ashamed of being subtle. She was capable to hide her suffering from the public eye so she could boast about her success, and unapologetically attack her enemies with humiliation. Anne Montgomery was cautious and ruthless. Someone like her wouldn’t just come out of nowhere and you were convinced there must be another mastermind behind the curtains. You watched and read every interview about this strong woman; wherever she went, victory was bent toward her side—imagewise, marketwise, and businesswise.

It took you a little more than a month to contact her via email, and a little more than two weeks to bother the hell out of Anne’s staff. You must become notoriously obstinate with your demands: insisting on meeting with the busy businesswoman to promote your book offer despite the countless “She is not available this month” or “Ms. Montgomery said she is not interested in your proposal” or “Please hang up or I’ll have to call the police”.

It took a total of fifty-five days for Anne to reply with an impersonal email, saying she would agree for a meeting.

Like a bird ready to fly out of its cage and knock headfirst into the concrete wall, you expected your work to be pulverized. You were ready for the nonchalance and condescension.

_“I don’t know what your real agenda is, and frankly I don’t care for an explanation. People like you usually aren’t worth my time, and yet…I cannot take the risk if it is all linked.”_

_She seemed to be murmuring that last sentence to herself, but loud enough for you to hear. You were having the appointed meeting at her private residence, and you wished you had the luxury to spare more attention on the artworks she owned, and observe the details of her spacious penthouse, but Anne Montgomery required your full focus. She also had the magic to trap her attendants in her charm._

_“What is?”_

_She ignored your question and stared right into your eyes. It was like being forced under a microscope and losing gravity at once. You didn’t know if you wanted to be seen, nor did you know if you really want to know about her. About the truth._

_“I am not familiar with your work.” She was an exceptional liar. You knew she must have read some of your works because Anne Montgomery would never walk into a battlefield unprepared. “The only thing that sets you apart from mediocracy, is that…how do they call it? A sympathetic human touch?”_

***

You stared dumbly at the black Sony recorder lying on the empty desk, and marveled how a small thing like this could be so intricate and had the potential to cause great damage. You had fished it out from an envelope, with a note that said: “AT ANY COST”. Anne must have had replaced your phone with them.

Laptop, charger, burner phone, notebooks, a dozen pens (or more), and papers were discovered later on the right drawer along with other daily necessities. But your curiosity was lit by the recorder—what had Anne offered in exchange for your freedom?

Pressing the play button was the official recognition that your days under Anne’s thumb had started: no communication to the outside world. Not at liberty to wander off. All for the safety of Anne Montgomery’s intellectual properties.

She marked you her property first.

_Everything happens for a reason._

_Think about that for a moment. All your efforts—personal, professional, carnal—utter and absolute slaves to some cosmically predetermined set of outcomes. As if we have no say in, let alone culpability for, the defining moments in our lives._

_If you want a life of purpose, by inverting the notion that everything happens for a reason...redefine it. Not as some future explanations for terrible tragedy or glorious achievement, but as validation of the deliberate choices that lead us to these critical junctures in the first place. A certain authority over chance, fate, and destiny because everything does happen for a reason._

_And that reason is you._

_To attain elite success, you must be willing to make the hard choices, do the unpleasant things, risk your most valuable assets, and do away with the shackles designed by society to limit us: love, marriage, children. And above all, the uninvited imposition of lesser people’s moral agendas. Because nothing worthwhile is ever achieved without sacrifice._

_And true greatness only comes to those willing to pursue it AT ANY COST._

So the note had settled the title of the book; the message she left, after some small revision, would no doubt be the perfect preface. You played the audio file over and over until involuntary goosebumps erupted from every inch of your skin. You couldn’t help but feel she was talking about you as you typed those words down. You couldn’t shake that familiar dread when you started to jot down significant points in the talk with Anne in the morning.

_Women, money, and worthiness._

_Every action taken is designated to draw out a pre-considered result._

It felt good to be doing what you were good at again, and you were troubled in a nanosecond about how well you seemed to understand what Anne Montgomery would like to convey.

_“What kind of voice do you want to be in your book?”_

_“What do I sound like?”_

_“Uh, a call for revolution, savagery…the cruel genius behind every investment…?”_

_“Hmmm…too wordy. Be specific.”_

Biting the tip of your pencil, you finally wrote down: _Anne Montgomery, the voice of the investment revolution._

Perfect.

***

“Ms. Montgomery would not be joining you for the rest of the day. If her plans had changed, she would let you know.”

“Just as busy, huh?”

Standing at a polite distance from your door, Foster gave you a faint smile; however grim, it was a friendly one. In the simple colors of black and white, he was in a three-piece suit, smartly tailored. The fabric of his shirt was no doubt made of fine linen, and he didn’t wear a tie. You smiled back at the pleasant distraction. After listing everything down and brainstorming a great deal of time (until you could barely contain the urge to just confront Anne with all the questions you came up), it got boring in the afternoon.

“So, how do I call you, like, Mr. Foster or just Foster?”

“Foster is fine.”

“Do I get the chance to know your full name?”

He raised his brows while you deepened your grin.

Foster was handsome in his age. Although time had carved cruel lines on his face, the keen light his eyes shone acute with pride and passion for life. Not to mention how his sideburn and stubbles brought out that strong jawline and cheekbones—Foster was no doubt a lady-killer in his prime.

He fitted all of the factors of your fatherly-image. Your ability to read someone was once highly dubious, but you changed. Now you swore for whatever reason Foster started to work for someone like Anne, you would sympathize with it.

You felt sorry for that girl who was dead when nativity was stripped away from her. However, trading what you had for being capable to understand people, things and how the world functioned, was a decision you already made.

“James Foster.”

“So James, then?”

“Don’t push, little girl.”

His expression was betraying what he tried to convey. You beamed at the glint of amusement Foster wanted to hide.

“If you could, maybe you can say something good about me? Anne would be pleased to know I have worked hard all afternoon.”

“Trust me, she knows.”

Then that sympathetic look flashed by again. Your smile froze but you shrugged it all off even if you felt a sense of doom, not that you were a prisoner to Anne, but a prisoner to yourself.

(Gunshot rang in your ears. You blinked to refocus.)

“Oh well. I choose to live with all this.”

Foster gave you a faint nod. As if being apologetic he quickly added, “Would you like your dinner served now?”

So they saw you skipping lunch. That wasn’t very comforting.

“How about…can I steal Anne’s dinner break? I have a couple of questions to ask her.”

“Unfortunately, she has a dinner function coming up. Would you like me to be the messenger?”

“Hmmm…she’ll probably shoot you. Some of my questions are really provocative. In her standards.”

The shrewd man didn’t reveal much emotion, but you could tell by the silence that James was processing the information, and get a more accurate understanding of your character. It was mutual. Although you had a gut feeling that you could befriend this man (on some level), you were monitoring his mannerisms closely. The way he stood was an active man with a purpose, but there was a wounded look he couldn’t quite cover. His ego was probably bruised and restored. Anne Montgomery was no doubt involved in an important place in Foster’s life.

“I can probably text her with that burner…I mean Blackberry? Do you have her phone number?”

“Yes.” He gave a pause, “I could give you her number, but I’m not sure if it’s wise. She won’t be thrilled about this.”

“That’s ok. If you feel pressured by this then it’s fine. I’ll just wait for her to contact me.”

James continued to look you in the eyes. He was indecisive about something.

“She also didn’t give any instructions about us engaging in conversations.”

“Then it’s up to you. Don’t you want to talk to me? I find you very interesting.”

You pouted, a little theatrical but not crossing any boundaries. The solemn lines on James’ face softened until the corner of his mouth quirked upwards.

“Consider me flattered. I will leave you to your craft.”

“Bye James.”

With a small tilt of his head noting the end of your pleasantries, he was gone. It was another hour to six. You put on some comfortable sportswear you found in the closet, and started to work up the appetite.

Maybe Anne would kindly tell you she had a secret gym in store, or you would go crazy confined in a place with limited ways to exercise.

***

It was the most decent meal you’d ever had for years. You had to muffle moans after taking the first bites of everything.

Sided with asparagus, the salmon was exquisitely roasted but not over-seasoned so you could taste its freshness, and the vegetable stew was so delicious (you were guessing there were beans, broccoli, tomatoes, and potatoes) you almost wanted to lick the bowl clean if it weren’t for your last bit of decorum. You were first preoccupied with devouring orgasmic food, then you identified the source of your uneasiness—the dining area was too big. Now you were finally alone, you started to pay close attention to your surroundings.

You could see the black door if you turn right, and you were seated right beside where the absent hostess should sit. The light from above cast a creamy mellow glow, and you could feel the furry maroon carpet beneath your feet. The fine paintings on the wall and installations along the aisle were not abrupt, but genius ornaments that honed the place to show glamour. It was yet another space to manifest the owner’s extreme wealth.

Everything Anne did was to intimidate. You were convinced this empire was the armor Anne built around her wound.

***

_Gunshot. Theo was murdered by your father while you stood powerless aside. His brains exploded and spilled onto the duffle bag beside; a total of seven hundred and fifty thousand US dollars was in it. You threw up. Before passing out, something prickly and warm was slowly soaking your jeans. Sick gratitude was your last thought, along with the realization your hope had perished._

_But you woke up too soon to see your father in faux concern, staring at you with his grayish, thinning hair and all of his repugnant features. Violent words rolled out of your mouth but you were too furious to hear anything. The only thing that made it to your ears other than your drumming heartbeat, was your father’s response._

_“…I bet he must have made you wetter than a slaughterhouse whore, didn’t he?”_

“No!”

It had been such a long time for that fragment of memory to reemerge. You were glad you fell asleep at your desk so the uncomfortable surface would wake you before that particular nightmare triggers the rest of the past. Your shirt was soaked around the chestal area, and your hair clung to your neck and forehead like a noose. The digital clock read 22:44.

After a series of fanatic moves to check if your Word document lost all of your editings—the battery ran out after you fell asleep—you let out a groan.

A big part of your writing was gone, but thankfully it wasn’t very important. It was descriptions of Anne’s house, could-be-written thoughts, and chunks of your provocative questions you came up after dinner. You decided to wander downstairs before you take a shower. Maybe a secret tour around the house would boost your memory.

Something grabbed your attention. A room you didn’t pay much attention to before was lit, and it was filled with hot steam. As your eyes gradually got used to the light, you instantly regretted it. You whirled around as fast as you could, but a feminine whimper, weak but clear, had penetrated the background with masculine huffs and low, suggestive murmurs. You couldn’t get out of there fast enough. You couldn’t feel your feet as you rushed down the stairs, woozy and warm, in need of fresh air. You couldn’t breathe properly, or see the pleasing night view.

All that stayed in front of your eyes, was Anne Montgomery fucking another man in her steam room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish that someday ao3 will acknowledge What/If officially as a tag in TV's category (WHY AM I THE ONLY ONE HERE (SCREAM IN NONSENSICAL WORDS


	3. Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her nail was sharp against the skin of your neck as she tilted your head up with her index finger. You felt dirty as the familiar heat roused from your lower abdomen.
> 
> “Such a shame. If only you had the courage instead of cowering in pretense.”

I took you home

Set you on the glass

I pulled off your wings

Then I laughed

I watched a change in you

It's like you never had wings

Now you feel so alive

I have watched you change

_—Deftones_

It became a rather peaceful routine for three weeks. Anne would notify you via text or if it was not too late in the night, she’d send Foster to inform you that you were required the next morning. Those visits of the older man were the times you cherished the most; it was when you got to interact with someone benign and friendly.

“You look dashing today.”

“I don’t have too many competitors around here, don’t I?”

You feigned a snicker. He smiled coolly, eyes gleaming with that extra spark of life you managed to evoke from time to time.

“I am still so not used to getting up early in the morning. How does she manage to do it? How do you manage to do it?”

“Years of practice.”

“Are you her only safeguard? Doesn’t she need other forms of protection?”

James crinkled his nose. You realized you asked the question in the wrong way before a fit of laughter escaped from you.

“Oops…incorrect word usage. Guess Anne has picked the wrong writer.”

“Slip of the tongue, that’s all. I won’t tell her.”

Your laughter was gradually replaced by a deep sense of gratitude. Foster didn’t owe you kindness, yet he chose to treat you with respect.

“Anne didn’t give too much trust to others.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” You grimaced and glanced around, a habit you developed every time you felt watched, “Then how did you manage to get her trust?”

“Mutual pain, and time. Then patience. But it’s another story to tell.”

“You have to get back to her.”

You finished Foster’s statement, and he responded with a terse but appreciative nod.

“It’s the same time tomorrow morning. Sleep well.”

“You too.”

Closing the door behind as Foster left, you exhaled and let your smile slip into a sour, wistful look. Your dreams were preventing you from quality sleeping; you sure as hell didn’t want to beg Anne for any medication, because you wouldn’t risk any chance to relapse. You never properly healed.

Coming back to America alone, you spent your money recklessly on your tranquilizers; as the Ambien and Lunesta in your cabinet grew and multiplied, those bottles started to make ways to your nightstand, then the palm of your hands as you drifted to limbo.

Then it wasn’t enough. Your doctor cut you off. You ignored her advice to check yourself into rehab, and purchased a gun then moved to San Francisco. But you knew wherever you go, your past would keep haunting you. Your days blurred into weeks, then years, because for your past to disappear you had gone onto a road of extreme measures—alcohol, one-night-stands, drugs (lots of them). Forgetting was expensive, and it had burned out your money and health. Your dignity and everything you once held onto lost their meaning, because stopping the pain was all that mattered.

You became inhuman just like your father. You became repellent of sex, afraid of any kind of intimacy.

An outsider who had seen too much and chose to stay away.

_“…I bet he must have made you wetter than a slaughterhouse whore, didn’t he?”_

_“Shut…up…”_

_The man hovering above continued thrusting himself in and out of you, cutting you into a million pieces. Why? Was he trying to impregnate you again now that you had lost your baby? But Theo knew better not to hurt you. He loved you. Everything he did was out of love. You looked up, trying desperately to see why Theo was doing this to you. Instead, you saw your father’s face. You wanted to push him away but you were cuffed onto the hospital’s bed. You wanted the pain to go away but maybe a part of you like having sex with your family._

_“You like this. Don’t deny it.”_

You snap your eyes open. It was not real. It was just a dream. Large drops of tears felt hot as they ran across your cheek, then they turned cold with shame. You were drenched in sweat and arousal. Trembling, you waited for the sleep paralysis to go away.

At least now you could tell which part of your dream was a memory, and what was just your worst fears. You were making progress.

***

“…so these parts needed further elaboration, and here I will delete them since we both agree it’s voice doesn’t sound very consistent. We will talk more about how you managed to withhold your investment despite how low the market’s turnover rate is, correct?”

“You forgot the conservatism and its connection with stock provision.”

“Oh right, sorry. And the part of different ratios?”

“Yes. Please revise that as well. We run on a tight schedule.”

Tone bored, Anne toyed with the Sony recorder with her slender, able fingers, and watched as you jot down these notes in frenzy. You became somewhat accustomed to her attention although it always felt like she wanted to dismantle you, threw chunks of your limbs into the fire, and then eat them up.

The metaphor sounded twisted. Oh well. You missed writing fiction.

“Do you work out previously?”

“Pardon?”

“There is a private gymnasium several floors beneath us. I can give you access to it if you need to let off some steam.” Her voice dipped lower, “It’s a torture to watch you go ballistic in your room.”

“It’s called bodyweight training. And don’t lie, you derive great pleasure in watching me especially when I suffer.”

Anne quirked her lips and adjusted the angle of her chin. You were more confused than irritated.

“Have I done anything in particular to earn this kind of privilege?”

“As I said before, you can try fighting for…whatever it is that you want.”

You frowned hesitantly. Anne’s green satin blouse reflected the sunlight as she shifted, and you were guessing she was uncrossing her legs behind her desk. The color of her blouse brought out the hue of her eyes.

“How about a pay-raise?”

“Haven’t I promised you enough?” Anne didn’t fall for anything, her façade seamless as she drawled, “And surely, I don’t believe you mean that.”

“Who doesn’t like money?” You shrugged with a dry smile. She waited because she knew your curiosity would get the best of you. And you cracked, “I want to know what you know about me.”

“To what end? It would neither accelerate the production of my book nor improving the quality of it.”

“I deserve to know. I thought by now you would trust me even for just a tiny bit.”

Anne’s eyes sparkled with malevolence. You pinched your thigh, berating yourself for walking into her trap.

“You need to be careful what you wish for, Y/N.”

Anne singsonged as she stood in a fluid motion, her pale white slacks splashed golden after she walked over to her bonsai. She was an exquisite artwork, an artificial and a dangerous one.

“I knew about the money you took, and the fire. Your mother is going to be very upset after she knew everything, but I suspect she has been kept in the dark for quite a while.”

You were shaken beyond words.

Anne picked up the scissors from the large pot, the cruel amusement hinting her intentions. Deliberate and precise, she started to preen the lively plant.

“You know, preening can be painful, but it ultimately spurs growth. Every time it suffers, the opportunity presents itself.”

“Yet you know _nothing_ about how the tree feels. God, you don’t seem to have an ounce of sympathy.”

Your mouth was already moving before you registered those words slashing through the air. Anne just laughed, blithe and harsh, not bothering to meet your gaze. You couldn’t shake this irrational, ridiculous sense of betrayal. You were absolutely powerless that tight pressure started to tug around your chest. _No. Not now. Not again._

“I am rather disappointed about how easy it is to rile you up. However, you are no use to me in such an ungoverned state.”

_Breathe in. Breathe out. She was doing this on purpose._

“You are right. I apologize. But you have no right to speak on my behalf, nor my mother’s. You are in no position to criticize because you know nothing about the whole picture.”

“I know enough. Or, do you have the courtesy to enlighten me right here, right now?” You swallowed and wiped your clammy palms onto your trousers. You closed your eyes and exhaled. You needed time and space, but didn’t you have enough? Hadn’t your squandered your opportunities away?

Eliciting no response, Anne sighed with a little dramatic flair and put the scissors back. She walked right beside you. Her perfume and heat stirred your stomach, then your head. You involuntarily recalled that night when you witnessed Anne having sex with another man. _Legs intertwined, animalistic moans, the smell of perspiration._

_American money and sweat. Stale beer. Blood and vomit. Hospital._

_Stop. Just stop thinking._ You dug your nails into your laps and forced your hammering heart back to where it should stay. You felt a sheen of sweat covering your forehead as you slowly turned around and met Anne’s gaze. She looked back steadfastly as you await the final blow.

Her nail was sharp against the skin of your neck as she tilted your head up with her index finger. You felt dirty as the familiar heat roused from your lower abdomen.

“Such a shame. If only you had the courage instead of cowering in pretense.”

As quickly as she let go, she left. You stayed immobilized in your seat, then the strong urge to retch made you left her study as well.

***

Mariam Louise was a good woman with many valuable qualities. She met the wrong man in her adolescent years, but since then she did everything she could to make amends. Raising a daughter and son up as a single mom, she would swear with a bright smile that she enjoyed every second of it. She loved her kids so much she tried her best to give them everything.

Maybe destiny decided to pay her back. As a reward, she met another man that was better than her first. The four of them were so happy and content, that another family member was born out of love. But good things never last.

Mariam’s first love appeared after years, filthy-rich and handsome, with smooth talks of goodwill and promises. Her current lover was smart enough to see it as a sham. However, kindness had always been a blessing and a curse to Mariam’s vision. She agreed to let her twins’ father take them to see the world.

Then she never heard back. Her marriage with her lover gradually dissolved after the disappearance of her twin offspring. Love couldn’t save all, nor could a family endure such a traumatic experience.

After a few years, alone and barely felt like living, Mariam received a sum of money from an anonymous European account, the amount great enough for her to live the rest of her life in comfort. Without proper connections and resources, there was no way for her to track down that money. She gave up the goose chase and continued to live in solitude, grasping onto the frail hope: maybe one day, her lost children could find their ways back home.

Except that one of her children was dead, and another had discovered her way home but too afraid to take that route. Instead, she watched her mother suffer while she stayed in a distance, trying to convince herself what she was doing was for the good for her mother.

Little did Mariam know, her missing daughter was capable of murder and fiery destruction. Little did she know, her precious child had become a writer throughout the years, and had the strength to keep herself alive. Little did Mariam know, her beloved daughter had decided to confront her demons, and take on a road of redemption.

Little did the distressed mother know, everything was connected, from her disastrous first love to the stock market’s supernova, Anne Montgomery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggests and comments are welcomed!  
> Also, I'm trying very hard not to turn this story into a gothic cliche (or if it happens it will at least be a logical and delicious one


	4. Restart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am just curious, that if power leads to more hunger of power, how does someone ever finish filling in that void?”  
> “Does it ever occur to you that people are simply different?”

If I abandoned love, I'd be a man without dreams

I'd rather be out there staring death right between its eyes now

And I can still hear the sound of you crying through the night

There in the opera house with no one else for miles

_—Cigarettes After Sex_

“Ms. Montgomery would be unavailable until the end of this week. She would send you audio recordings for the content of the book, and you are encouraged to contact her for any correction or suggestion.”

“Does it mean that this weekend I won’t get to see you, too?”

You were disappointed immensely. The coming six days were going to be long. James pursed his lips and said, “Unfortunately, that will be the case.”

“Where are you going this time?” You remembered they had a similar arrangement two weeks ago. You were here for nearly seven weeks now. Seeing James’ hesitation, you quickly added, “That’s alright. I shouldn’t ask. Just…come back safe?”

“I will try my best.”

The strained look on his face disappeared into a reassuring smile. Then he stared right into your eyes. For a second, you thought Foster was bemused with something about you. What did he find other than a plain brunet in a pair of over-priced pajamas? The woman in denial and regret? The girl who would always live in the past she wouldn’t face?

“Excuse me. I almost forgot this.” Like coming out of a trance, Foster fished out a black, rectangular thing out of his plaid azure jacket. You realized it was probably some kind of access card after you accepted it from him. “Anne wanted to give you this; it serves as an elevator card, and has access to all the spaces and facilities of her private residence in this building such as the gym.”

“And also the front door where I can just literally run away?”

“She believes you will use it smartly.”

You gulped, keeping the lamb, potatoes, and onions safely in your stomach. Some of the vile memories Anne evoked that day still resurfaced. Your distraught became transparent.

“I know it’s not my place to make further inquiry, but how are you lately, Y/N?”

James used a voice you had never heard before, whispery and forced like he was saying something immoral, “I know staying here, being under such pressure can drive people mad.”

“You are right.” Shedding just an ounce of pressure off of your shoulders, you were void of strength all of a sudden. You took several steps back, reeling the emotions in as you sat boneless onto the brim of the mattress. Foster didn’t follow, but his cautious gaze never left you. You muttered, “Has Anne ever rubbed your past in your face?”

You stared down at your jeans-clad lap; from the corner of your eye, you could see James shifting uncomfortably by the doorframe.

“She could be very…challenging—”

“Has she?”

Frustration and anxiety soaked your tone. You looked up and found that it was Foster’s turn to avoid your gaze. For a moment, rage and the feeling of betrayal were ignited again within you since that last time when Anne revealed what she knew. You now found yourself too tired to look for any support.

“In a way, yes.” James finally answered, and you widened your eyes at the older man with unveiled hope, “You probably remember, I once said it takes mutual pain for Anne to trust someone. To some degree, an important stage of Anne’s past was interrelated with mine, thus we share the pain that inevitably bound our lives together.”

“Are you suggesting that every day you serve her, you were being reminded of a chapter of life you want to forget?”

“It’s always been a two-way street for us.”

You bit your tongue. Curiosity had pushed you towards the edge of breakdown the first time, but you never learn. You still wanted to know more.

“Please tell me more about it, James.”

_I was once an average detective with an extraordinarily happy life. My family was happy with me. But people change. The days became harder and harder. I told myself it was what dealing with cold cases and going absolutely clueless would do to people. I was wrong. I was masquerading my boiling cynicism for the injustice I see, and making excuses for my powerlessness. Powerless to save my marriage. Powerless in communicating with my daughter._

_My ex-wife was filing for divorce when I beat a man to death. He raped my daughter, and she couldn’t stand what she had endured so she killed herself. We blamed ourselves because the negligence was what that put our daughter on the palm of a rapist, then the road to suicide. We never found a way to save Angela, and she was so disappointed in us but too afraid to let us know. Angie killed herself not because she wanted to prove that we failed as parents. She did it because she was in too much pain, and we had nothing to help her._

_I went to jail after that. I surely deserved every day of that twenty-five years, but my ex-wife didn’t deserve to die. She had a heart attack when I was in prison, and of course, her health had deteriorated since. I could do nothing, only knowing I was letting her rot to death. After I came back, bitter and lost, a mysterious woman sought me out. Anne was already pretty successful at that time, and she took a bet on me just like she did with everything on the palm of her hand. Anne betted I would have utter loyalty because she was once alone, in too much pain, had no one to help her. She offered me redemption and trust in exchange for safety and empathy._

You must have had doubts about the reasons behind Anne’s recruitment, right?

_I gave up guessing the motive behind her every action a long time ago. She is only willing to show this version of herself she created for me, so I have settled with that. Besides, one can already observe so much if he stays around._

What do you mean by, Anne was once in pain and alone?

_Remember the man I killed?_

Yes.

_My daughter wasn’t the only victim._

Anne…was raped?

_It was complicated. It was always more complicated than how it appeared to be, isn’t it?_

Of course.

_You say it as if you have also seen too much._

I have. I suspect that’s why Anne wants me here. But what does she really want, besides seeing me unravel and break down?

_You are really important to her. That’s all I can say about what I see. What’s your story, Y/N?_

The last time Anne brought up my past, she said she knows about the fire I set up to my father’s house and the money I stole from him. She knows that I alienate myself from my mother since I…since I escaped from my father. I wonder if there’s anything that she doesn’t know?

_Do you think she understands you?_

I think she thinks she understands human nature, but she’s actually dead wrong about some parts of it. Maybe she wants to change the ones she deems valuable into her version of people. Maybe she likes to test humanity just to prove that she was right about people’s dark side.

_That’s quite some insight. I can’t say any of those ideas are totally wrong. You amaze me, young girl._

But it doesn’t matter, doesn’t it? Gaining all those insights? I’m only allowed to rebel in ways she thought I would rebel, allowed to paint her into the versions she wanted. Everything I do will be something that fits her plan.

_You would be fine. Everyone is more powerful than they think they know._

And weaker than they could ever imagine.

***

The air felt too tight. The muscles on your right calf spasmed but it went away while your heart beat wildly. The sheen of sweat on your skin had accumulated into droplets minutes ago, but didn’t cool you down. Your breathing was audible and so was the thudding of your sneakers on the treadmill. The AC was almost quiet in the background, and it made the cathartic symphony—the low hum, the footsteps, the short feverish breaths.

The clicking of heels?

You wiped the sweat on your brow and shook your hallucination away, along with the image of Anne’s malicious, secretive smile, the crinkle at the corner of her eyes, and the touch when she dug her nail onto your skin. Goosebumps erupted from head to toe; you thought it was because you started to recall James’ version of Anne’s story. Raped. Alone. Victim.

But Anne didn’t seem like a victim to you.

“I really don’t appreciate how you treat your own body.”

Technically you didn’t fall, but you did a great bolt and stumble off the machine before you pressed the “pause” button.

“Anne! I thought you are still away.”

It was Friday. You weren’t expecting the entrepreneur until tomorrow or the day after that. This was an outrageous ambush since no normal people would pay somebody a visit at midnight.

No normal people would workout at this time of the day either.

Grabbing the towel on the handle, you tried to make yourself less gross by swiping it onto your face and neck, but failed miserably. You sweated everywhere.

“I had overestimated an opponent.”

“Business partner or nemesis?”

“Both.”  
Puzzled, you watched carefully at Anne and she stared back, cool and unwavering. She was still in her business attire. Beneath her long lapel suit jacket, she was in an English rib cashmere sweater and a black leather skirt, with a pair of high heels as a chic finish. There was self-satisfaction in her pose that paralleled the sharp, lively light in her eyes, which hadn’t appeared for a while since she brought up unspoken matters about you. The selfish, ugly part of you actually enjoyed seeing her this way; as long as there was no conflict of interest, it felt good to see her basking in her victory.

“Can I ask you something?”

“As long as it’s relevant to the book, fire away.”

You had it since the beginning of your collaboration. On the dopamine rush, there was nothing you could do to stop this upcoming subject. Every time you recapped your interview notes, you paused at this question and started to revise it. But you never had the courage, nor was the timing ever right.

But this was bound to be asked.

“You use your power to gamble for more power. You have a life of comfort and luxury. You have become successful. But what is the end of all this? When does your quest ever end?”

“I am not interested in answering your philosophical questions. They seem boring and excruciatingly pointless to me.” Words aside, you would think she was discussing what kind of food she prefers or how awful the weather was these days. Her expression was perfectly impassive and neutral; hands in her pocket, Anne was pretending to pay great attention to the number of mileage on the treadmill. She lifted a brow and gave some approving nods while you tried to keep your irritation at bay. If only the older woman could be less condescending. “Again, if you continued to treat yourself like this, one day your body will collapse. Take my advice. Medicine becomes poison once you take them immoderately.”

If her agenda today here was to aggravate, she had made it. You were ready to snap as she locked eyes with you.

You couldn’t. She was the tragedy you were trying to avoid but knew it would eventually happen. Anne was the reminder of all that you have and all your mistakes. Anne was your fatality.

Under the bright white florescent lights, the lines on the beautiful blonde’s face were grave; nothing could escape from your eyes—her prominent cheekbones that could cut, the harsh lines carved around her mouth, the wine-red lips pairing perfectly with the sickly blush. Nothing of you could be hidden from her either. You and she were already bare to each other at the beginning; maybe, choosing the things you thought right to arm yourself was always the bad decision. Maybe if you showed her who you really were, nothing would have to change.

If she thought all people were evil, so what?

“People are animals of greed and want. I get it.” Voice steadier but still gruff, you cleared your throat apologetically and bent over, picking up the water bottle that was almost empty. You weren’t sure if you had indeed caught a glimpse of surprise in Anne’s eyes, but she was already unreadable as you finished large gulps of Evian. “I am just curious, that if power leads to more hunger of power, how does someone ever finish filling in that void?”

“Does it ever occur to you that people are simply different?”

“Yes, but I—”

“ _We_ are different. Some of us dare to want for the better, rise from countless predicaments, while others are painfully restricted by their own moral views; don’t you think it’s rather..." She pondered, with superfluous seriousness, "... _pathetic_?”

Anne shifted, taking out her hands from her jacket and placed them on her hips. Despite telling you she was not interested in answering your question, she was doing the opposite. A spark of fire appeared in her narrowed eyes, and you couldn’t tell whether she was enraged or thrilled.

“I do.” You created a startle, because now Anne giving you a smile with calculated wryness to cover up her reaction. “Uh, you wanna go upstairs with me? Maybe we can continue this conversation in the library or…wherever you please.”

You trailed off when Anne tilted her head downwards with a small perk of her lips, then turned to walk away without waiting for you. The nervous habit caught up with you before you followed her out of the gym, as you glanced around to check yourself in the mirror.

The blonde roots of your brown hair were unmistakably more visible. You gulped and looked away, starting to catch up with Anne’s pace.

Just when you thought you were finally brave enough for a confrontation, you were struck with the cruel fact: you had yet to face what mattered the most.


	5. Unveiled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The feeling of Anne’s breath haunted the surface of your skin. The string and the fletching were stiff and heavy in your hand; the bow, watching how Anne had held it, seemed lethal and petite with every bit of masculine energy in it. Now in your strained hands, it became fiendish and humongous, revealing every bit of your doubts and insecurities.
> 
> “Don’t be afraid to let go.”

The world was on fire and no one could save me but you

It's strange what desire will make foolish people do

I'd never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you

And I'd never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you

_—Chris Isaak_

Cat-like, Anne shrugged off her white suit jacket and hang it haphazardly on the other green, velvet chair. You sat stupidly across from her on the furry couch, wondering if your residual sweat would dampen and contaminate the pricy object. It was approaching late autumn and the air was warmer inside. You were in the library. It was easy to tell its style apart from the rest of the house; everything was vintage in the shades of full, warm colors, with comparably masculine antiques bringing out the luxe and comfort of this place.

“Not here often, I presume?”

You refocused your attention on your hostess. Anne was in a peculiar mood and you didn’t know if it was a good thing. Legs-crossed in an elegant fashion, the older woman relaxed onto the back of her chair, and put her hands idly on the handles, regal, dangerous and oozing sexuality. Somewhere in your brain the alarm was ringing; you knew Anne uses her charisma as one of her weapons, but even if your thoughts were coherent your body was too tired. Anne was right. You shouldn’t keep torturing yourself with odd timings of stress-relief.

“I don’t really like to poke around in other people’s houses.”

“I am glad you make good use of what I have given you instead of, for example, run away.”

“You know I won’t escape. I thought by now you would at least trust me like…I don’t know, more than the day we met?”

“It’s for caution.”

“It’s a test.”

You deadpanned. Anne just gave a slight shrug and looked away. It was surprising tonight the usual smugness in her smile was almost gone, and was replaced with something reminiscent and obscure. But Anne would never show what she didn’t want to show: when she was sharp, you would feel as if her words were running blades. When she was angry, you would feel trepidation and a strange sense of detachment. When she was opaque, you would know she wanted you to guess who she really was. When she was clear and upfront with talks of business jargon, you would allow yourself to relish in awe—the appropriate affection from a rational angle to acknowledge another human being. She had perceived this side of your fondness, and you didn’t think hiding it would be necessary.

Anne was never open, though.

“How could you wear those heels all day long, and not wanting to kick them off as soon as you come back home?”

Staring into the void, a light crease of frown crawled upon Anne’s forehead, and you were sure you had messed up the atmosphere for a decent conversation to happen. She slowly fixated her gaze upon you. For a moment, you thought she must have forgotten who you were and why you were here, or there was nothing left to explain the intense, unfocused fire in her eyes that stirred your senses, making you want to pivot towards her.

“It’s astounding what people could get accustomed to. Those who are incapable of evolution, are nothing more than slaves to their own nature…” Her voice was raspy but melodious, joined with the gentle rise and fall of her chest. A rush of peace and excitement spurred your heart. Suddenly you weren’t so tired anymore. “Again, from something so trivial like this we can easily tell how we are simply different, aren’t we?”

You felt like Anne wasn’t looking for a response, but for something that could echo an answer she had in mind. However, neither agreeing nor countering her opinion would be your best options. The billionaire hated the ignorant or opinionated people.

“We are indeed very different. I do believe that, and to continue what you’ve asked earlier…” Eager and cautious, you licked your lips and relents, “We are, at a very basic level of existence, alike. Humans are all pathetic because we’re all slaves to our choices and impressions of what we perceive. And impressions are painfully subjective.”

You looked at Anne with earnest, humble. She remained impassive, but pensiveness had softened the lines on her face. She looked almost dreamy.

“So in correspondence to your logic, the motive behind my quest is filling in this…bottomless hole in me, and since we are all slaves to ourselves, there won’t be any difference between me, who has possessions like these—” Anne addressed the room you were in with a simple gesture of her hand, tone flat,“—and those who have nothing?”

“Nothing valuable to you, but to them, the things you can’t see are what keeps them alive.” Unknown ardor and bravery made you speed up your talk as you perched forward, “Only if you accept that we all hold our own special impressions of the world, only after you see how different we are, can you say that we are different.”

“You are suggesting that I don’t have an ounce of empathy.”

“No, I mean that you—I just hope you would really mean what you say to me.” An untimely blush crept on your cheeks unexpectedly. Anne watched, amused; to cover up your nervousness you carried on, “Also, I don’t mean to demean how you pursue your own happiness. I don’t understand who you are so I wouldn’t understand all of your purposes. Therefore, I won’t criticize.”

With some barely visible nods, an abrupt smile broke from Anne’s solemn frame. It was void of mockery, like the older woman was genuinely proud and glad. You blinked and unclenched your fists; she could not be this transparent for such a short time, and you were right.

The next question was laced if not with venom, then the utmost tricky question.

“Who exactly do you think I am?”

You searched Anne’s eyes, and found her staring back in an innocently. A hint of interest and curiosity highlighted the color around her orbs, making her eyes look glassy yet piercing at the same time.

“I think you are a beautiful liar, and you want others to lie they believe you are true. I think you expect others to be beautiful liars as well.”

“And if I am a liar, what does that make you? A coward?”

Anne deepened her smile, intrigued but ready to put another one of her masks on. You were content with the idea that you’d just witnessed—however small—a part of Anne’s true self.

“A romantic one, at least.”

Anne laughed, and she sounded like the beginning notes of a dark sonata, so joyous to the ears yet blasphemous to the heart. You were certain to have given her the satisfaction, bringing out the worst in you. She was Lord Henry watching you struggle with your degraded portrait, and you were also Anne’s replica if she was Dorian Gray.

“How do you come up with all those questions for my book? I trust it’s not only your romantic nature that drives you to think of them.”

“Uh, the deadline of the contract I signed?”

“You are smarter to know what I mean.”

A pointed look was aimed at your direction, you found Anne’s gaze hardening and you decided it was not fair. She wanted you to divulge the parts of yourself she was not familiar with, whenever and however she wanted. When you wanted her to reciprocate in any way she offers another enticing lie, or an empty promise. You were smart enough to not confuse them with hope, but you didn’t know if you would be strong enough to resist them.

“Well, let’s just say my motivations must be in some ways, very similar to yours in pursuit of fortune and power.”

“In your words, maybe we aren’t so different, is that what you mean?”

“Don’t worry. In case you feel conscience catching up with you, I don’t feel like a lesser being even if you treated me like I am inferior to you.”

You joked, but the seriousness in your tone was loud and clear. Anne uncrossed her legs and stood up, momentarily distracting you with her effortless grace as she grabbed ahold of her jacket, marking the period of your discussion tonight.

“If it makes you feel better…” Putting the expensive piece of clothing on, she fixed her already immaculate hair and combed them out of her face, “…I treat everyone like they are lesser beings.”

You grinned. She threw you a nonchalant gaze before she left. For a nanosecond, you thought you saw her waver, like she was caught off-guard by something she found in you, or being struck with sudden realization.

“Same time tomorrow, Y/N. I will teach you something. Dress in…what you have been wearing, would suffice. Good night.”

With a cold address, Anne left, not bothering to look you in the eye. You let the blond disappear from your sight, repressing the urge to make further inquiries.

Not ready to go upstairs, you walked unhurriedly over to the terrace of the penthouse. You hugged yourself as gusts of the wintry wind whipped around your body. The fresh air switched open your senses and you were overwhelmed. Your throat tightened but you couldn’t form a single tear. Instead of looking over the night view, you stared down, down, down…

_Down in the abyss of hell, waves of pleasure were crushing your bones in just the right amount of sin and pain; you writhed and moaned, arousal dripping down your thighs as you kept on grinding on top of another hot, wet body. Your hands and legs were uncomfortably bound together, fueling the fear and uncertainty deep inside of you that you ignored. Something that felt so good like this could not be wrong. You were lost in the overwhelming desire as if you were afloat in the air, and indeed you were. The bed looked strangely familiar like the hospital bed—no, something told you it sure was. You also ached with happiness as you found out, that Theo was not dead while you lower your head to inspect why you two were floating in the dark air, no wires attached._

_“Hey…I missed you.” He panted, his cheeks rosy and eyes filled with sincerity. You couldn’t believe it was true. Theo reached out a hand (unlike you, his limbs were free because he was untied) to caress your face, “My precious sister. I love you so much that it’s killing me.”_

_“Me too.” You choked, tears of joy spilling out of your eyes. You wanted to touch him but you couldn’t. His face was misty and it filled your heart with poignancy because you couldn’t see him behind a thin fog, cloaking his beautiful features. “I want to be your little girl again.”_

_“But you didn’t obey.”_

_There was a strange shift of air, you had to stop yourself from gaining more pleasure to try seeing Theo’s face more clearly. The vapor disappeared, and horror struck you blind because lying beneath you, was that terrible man you despised, who had a white bony face, thin nose, and a pair of lips that were contorted malignantly._ _Short gasps escaped from your mouth and you were frozen. You could do nothing when your father started to rise, inch by inch, getting ahold of you like he always does. You almost couldn’t breathe when he touched your hair, running his fingers through the blond locks and chuckle darkly._

_“I always enjoy the sight of blondes.”_

_“Father! Please…”_

_You didn’t know what you were pleading for. Panic had swallowed your senses, he knew and he was ready to exploit it._

_“_ _I bet he must have made you wetter than a slaughterhouse whore, didn’t he?”_

_Deep down you knew you had to answer or you would be stuck forever in this hell; shutting your eyes close, you forced yourself to open your mouth, uttering a loud, clear, painful answer, “Yes.”_

_“Well, then. It seems I was right about you.” A rather harmonious, feminine voice rang like a bell at dawn. You snapped your eyes open. You were no longer tied but your positions were reversed, and the person who was opposite of you became a petite figure, naked and smooth, with eyes gleaming like the serpent in Eden. Anne started to grind herself on top of you oh-so gracefully, sending thrills down your body and you moaned before you realized how confusing and unprofessional it was. It was wrong, but it felt so right. “I wonder if you really meant your answer, though.”_

_“Of course. I would never lie to you, Ms. Montgomery.”_

_“Call me Anne.”_

_Just like a signal, the bed started to fall. The blustery wind wrapped and knocked against your bodies, but you weren’t that afraid anymore. Unknown conviction quieted your thundering heart as you stared right into Anne’s eyes. The rest of the world faded away until the blinding light replaced the darkness._

You woke before the alarm and stared stupidly at the high ceiling. For ten weeks you had been sleeping here, last night was the most peaceful ever. As always, you chose not to waste your thoughts on your dream. There was no need to dwell upon those details; you could never remember all of them anyway. You focused on that peculiar sense of tranquility and got up.

It was another hour until your appointment with Anne.

***

“I am nowhere near being a toxophilite. If there is one in the house it should be James.”

“I’m flattered, but I think it’d be better if you do the coaching.”

Foster’s face was emotionless but his tone was humbled. He looked at his employer carefully because the three of them had never been in the same room, and it created a delicate dynamic. The capitalist was no longer looking at her security guard, but at the girl by the breakfast table who was trying to look as natural as possible. Today, the ghostwriter had cleaned up well, with a pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeved, black ruffle blouse. It was more feminine compared to Y/N’s previous choice—shideously tomboy-ish—but still a rather dull combination to the entrepreneur’s taste. She hid her disdain well towards most people; the sensitive younger woman was being treated with no exception. Though the proud investor was rarely disappointed at Y/N, she was nowhere near flattered. Everything the brunet had done under her roof (wardrobe choices, daily routine, food consumptions) were estimated and designed. However, it would be a gross understatement to say, the enigmatic blonde was never surprised at the writer’s character. Yes, she was a weak, acquiescing, dainty little thing with unnecessary flaws, ethical perspectives and an unspoken past.

But didn’t they all?

“I intend to.”

Tone quiet and faraway, Anne fixed her eyes upon you and raised a brow, beckoning you over. You were still astonished to see Anne practicing archery. During breakfast, your heart was never in on the eggs Benedict, but beating irregularly for the sight of the blonde goddess with a bow and arrow, timeless and elegant like she was taken from Greek mythology. You recognized Anne was practicing barebow; it only fueled your admiration since it would be up to the archer to make great shots: no sights, no stabilizer, no clicker, no other gadgetries. It suited Anne’s character so well that she would like a good challenge.

It was a soft morning. The lights fell upon the terrace, into the room, all the way to the hall, shimmering in the splendor of orange, crimson, and milky yellow. Everything reflected the sunshine especially Anne’s hair and her movements, fluid, smooth and precise, utterly focused and determined you were sure she was designed just for this kind of fantastic violence. Barefoot, she was in a blue-green satin top, one side slit-sleeved and the other sleeveless, with a pair of indigo leggings which to your unfortunately noticed, was very flattering to her curves. You just hoped you would be able to concentrate as you put down your mug, then staggered towards the venture capitalist. Composed and engaged, she watched your every single move as she took off her arm guard and glove listlessly.

“Put those on.” Terse, she handed her gear to you and you could only accept them, “For protection. Your hand is one of the most valuable assets to me.”

“That’s not fair. What about my brain?”

You rolled up your sleeves brusquely and started to struggle with the unfamiliar equipment. Anne huffed and went to your assistance. You snuck an anxious gaze at Foster’s direction, and found him looking at your direction with incredulousness, as if he was saying _why the hell is Anne Montgomery doing this._

You stifled a nervous cackle.

“You two have become thick as thieves. Don’t assume I didn’t notice.” She muttered. Her fingertips were raindrops as she made contact with your forearm. Her hands were cold, and her every touch sent flutters down your body as she adjusted the vine-like structure, then checking briskly if you had worn the deer-skin glove correctly on your right hand, “There. I presume you should know how to do, since you have already done a great amount of observation?”

“You overestimated me.”

Looking away, you flushed from head to toe; she was referring to you watching her the whole time while you had breakfast. The skin contacts you received today had exceeded all the times added in probably a year. It was the worst time to get distracted—damn your author-perspectives. You realized you were approximately at the same height as Anne because you were wearing sneakers. In the cool breeze, the smell of her perfume changed one note after the next; violet, sandalwood, vanilla and wild berry were like the different sides of Anne you had perceived in the past two months.

“I hope not.”

Your hoped she didn’t pick up the shaky notes in your voice, but apparently, she did. _Phantasmagoria_ popped into your head as she smiled, close-lipped, in all her brilliancy. It was once your favorite word, then you hated it because it got deleted every time you put it in your novel. _Wordy, goth_ _and immature_ , the editors said. Anne was a gothic figure to you despite how bright, forward or present she appeared in social media, and you were right. Unblinking, she was now looking at you with a tilt of her chin, her hands settling on her lean waist.

“Because that would be a real shame, wouldn’t it?”

Anne remarked, the orbs in her eyes luminous in shades of blue and green. You were clueless. You were all weakness and blush to her, but she wouldn’t grant you the final strike of humiliation. You had to earn it.

“Hold on. Stop.” Lightheaded with a strange giddiness, you let her guide you and modify your position. She lifted your elbow and tugged at your arm, then with a noiseless but impatient sigh, she suddenly closed the gap between your bodies. You could feel her bosoms pressed lightly against your shoulder blades as she monitored your position, one hand supporting your bow hand, another holding your right. Her heat was making you sweat in the glove, and her scent became so heady for a moment that you could hardly breathe; in combination it was a pleasant feeling, but very bewildering. You tightened your grip when she mumbled against your ear, “Widen your stance, have faith in your shot once you are sure to let fly. Don’t hesitate.”

The feeling of Anne’s breath haunted the surface of your skin. The string and the fletching were stiff and heavy in your hand; the bow, watching how Anne had held it, seemed lethal and petite with every bit of masculine energy in it. Now in your strained hands, it became fiendish and humongous, revealing every bit of your doubts and insecurities.

“Don’t be afraid to let go.”

Before you could analyze what undertones there were in the blonde’s words, she left your side as soon as she got close. _Too close to your comfort_ , you realized, when the proximity of another flesh contrasted starkly with the empty cold air that flowed freely around you.

You exhaled after you registered, that the arrow you were responsible for had completely missed out the wooden target, and sunk into the wall behind it.

“Not bad for a first-timer.”

Foster observed. Appreciating the kind words, you looked at him and grinned with relief. You didn’t fail to notice Anne’s lack of comment and expression.

“Keep her safe. I must go now.” Picking up the heels she left by the terrace like it was the most natural thing to do, Anne seemed disturbed compared to her usual prowess, “And Y/N?”

“Yes?”

Clutching the heels, she bore her eyes into you and spoke steadfastly, “Here’s a friendly reminder: you have used up half of our time here. Also, we need to reschedule the development of the content.”

After the announcement, she was ready to leave.

“I could write a more satisfying version if you tell me more about who you are.”

You challenged her in the defiance you could muster, and Anne stopped in her tracks.

“You seem to forget…” She turned around. You were quickly disappointed. The Anne Montgomery who was once closer to you, emotionally and physically, was never real.

This was Anne’s true self: merciless, self-centered and power-driven.

“…I am not the only legal person in our contract. _You_ need to fulfill your end of it no matter what or your anonymity would be blown, your identity would be at stake, I’m sure it would be the last thing you want. Also, please keep this in mind,” She lowered her voice; you forced the bile down angrily, repressing every bit of urge to shake and cower under her scorching gaze.

“That _I_ choose what I can give.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. Shout out to D, who's encouraged me to return to this (semi-abandoned) fic. I promise I will try to finish this, and thank you, all my precious readers for reading this!  
> And this is still the only What/If fic on ao3 wtf


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